that seem to me to be merely disputatious, and we didn’t write it in the best form.  It corresponds to what you once called suburban:  do you remember?  Not thoroughbred.  But we’ll get over even that, especially if the Administration and the courts continue to bring the Germans to book who are insulting our dignity and destroying our property and killing Americans.  If we can satisfactorily settle the Lusitania trouble, the whole outlook will be very good.

Your mother and I are hearing much interesting political talk.  We dined last night with Mr. Bonar Law.  Sir Edward Carson was there.  To-day we lunched with Lady P.—­the other side, you see.  There are fundamental differences continually arising.  They thought a few weeks ago that they had the Prime Minister’s scalp.  He proved too nimble for them.  Now one person after another says to you:  “Kitchener doesn’t deserve the reverence the people give him.”  More and more folks say he’s hard to work with—­is domineering and selfish.  Nobody seems really to know him; and there are some signs that there may be a row about him.

We’ve heard nothing from Harold in quite a little while.  We have, you know, three of our footmen in the war.  Allen was wounded at Loos—­a flesh, bullet-wound.  He’s about well now and is soon going back.  Leslie is in the trenches and a postal card came from him the other day.  The third one, Philip, is a prisoner in Germany.  Your mother sent him a lot of things, but we’ve never heard whether he received them or not.  The general strain—­military, political, financial—­gets greater.  The streets are darker than ever.  The number of wounded increases rapidly.  More houses are turned into hospitals.  The Manchesters’, next door, is a hospital now.  And everybody fears worse days are to come.  But they have no nerves, these English.  They grit their teeth, but they go on bravely, enduring everything.  We run into experiences every day that melt you, and the heroic things we hear outnumber and outdo all the stories in all the books.

I keep forgetting Xmas, Kitty, and this is my Xmas letter.  You needn’t put it in your stocking, but you’d really better burn it up.  It would be the ruination of the world if my frank comments got loose.  It’s for you and Chud only.  You may fill your stocking full of the best wishes you ever received—­enough to fill the polar bear skin.  And I send you both my love.

     W.H.P.

     To Ralph W., Arthur 147., and Frank C. Page[31]

     London, Christmas, 1915.

     DEAR Boys:  R.W.P., A.W.P., F.C.P.

A Merry Christmas to you!  Good cheer, good company, good food, good fires, good golf.  I suppose (though the Lord only knows) that I’ll have to be here another Christmas; but another after that?  Not on your life!

I think I’m as cheerful and hopeful as I ever was, but this experience here and the